In My Own Words, My Own Time
by ValaEnVash
Summary: When Sherlock 'died', John was left behind to cope with the aftermath and to find something worth living for. Texts are sent, calls are made, and people die. Will John survive The Hiatus? (Rated M to be on the safe side. Mild language within.)
1. Eulogy

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

This particular story is in no way connected to any other I've posted. Apparently, I like speculating on John's reactions to and life after The Fall.  
I believe I may offer several options for his mental state by the time Season Three begins.

Any suggestions, corrections, etc are happily accepted. This has not been beta'd.

Thank you for reading and review at your leisure!

*love*

* * *

_**The day I met him, I'd had only been back in England a few months. I'd been invalided home after being shot in Afghanistan. I was a soldier, a doctor, but after that, I wasn't anything important. I thought nothing important or exciting would ever happen to me again.**_

_**Then I met him, and he offered me a chance at such an amazing life. One I could share with him, no matter that he drove me up the wall with the noise and experiments and running all over bloody London. **_

_**He saved me. We saved each other, I think. **_

_**He was the smartest man I've ever known. He made such beautiful music on his violin, and, I think I may have caught him singing once or twice. I never told him... It helped though, with the nightmares and sleepless nights. I hope he knew that. **_

_**No matter what anyone called him – freak, fake, liar, psychopath, sociopath, addict – above all else, he was my friend. He cared more than anyone I've ever met. He just didn't have the experience to know how to show it. So, he made it his life's work – he **_**gave****_ his life – to help and to save others all under the guise of 'solving the puzzle'. Try as he might, he couldn't fool me for long. He cared or he wouldn't have done it. _**

_**He told me once there was no such thing as heroes, and that, if there were, he wouldn't be one. That's a lie. He was my best friend, and I'll always believe in him.**_

- John Watson, eulogy of Sherlock Holmes


	2. The Phone Call

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

* * *

John relived that day every time he closed his eyes.

**John**: Sherlock, are you okay?**  
Sherlock**: Turn around and walk back the way you came.  
**John**: No, I'm coming in.  
**Sherlock**: Just. Do as I ask. Please.

Everywhere he looked, something reminded him of his best friend.

**John**: Where?  
**Sherlock**: Stop there.  
**John**: Sherlock.  
**Sherlock**: Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop.  
**John**: Oh god.

How could they have doubted him? How could those so-called friends of his betray him like that? Even his own brother. God, it made him sick to think about it.

**Sherlock**: I— I— I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this.  
**John**: What's going on?  
**Sherlock**: An apology. It's all true.  
**John**: What?  
**Sherlock**: Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.  
**John**: Why are you saying this?  
**Sherlock**: I'm a fake.

John Watson wasn't an idiot and he hadn't been idle during the time he'd lived with Sherlock Holmes. He had developed quite the knack to distinguish truth from lie while in medical school, then in the army, but Sherlock had refined it to a fine point. And he knew his friend. So, what the hell was Sherlock thinking?

**John**: Sherlock—  
**Sherlock**: The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes.  
**John**: Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met—the first time we met—you knew all about my sister, right?  
**Sherlock**: Nobody could be that clever.  
**John**: You could.

Of course he could. _Oh god, please stop. _The dreams (nightmares) were unstoppable once they reached this point and almost seemed to speed up, if only to get to the end faster.

**Sherlock**: I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Its just a magic trick.  
**John**: No. Alright, stop it now.  
**Sherlock**: No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move.  
**John**: Alright.

He wanted to run. Run and run and run until he stand by his side, could hold Sherlock's hand and fall with him.

**Sherlock**: Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?  
**John**: Do what?**  
Sherlock**: This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.  
**John**: Leave a note when?  
**Sherlock**: Goodbye, John.  
**John**: No. Don't—

He heard it all. In his dreams, he heard everything: the wind whipping through the fabric of Sherlock's Belstaff coat; the impact of his friend's lithe body hitting pavement; the wet, squishy sound made when the bystanders rolled Sherlock onto his back; the complete lack of a heartbeat.

John would wake up screaming. Every time.


	3. 2012

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

* * *

**Text from John Watson.  
****20 June 2012**

I had to go to your funeral today.

**Text from John Watson.  
****05 July 2012**

Can't stay at Baker Street.

**Text from John Watson.  
****18 July 2012**

At Harry's. She's sober. 4 months. I'm not.

**Text from John Watson.  
****30 August 2012**

Punched Mycroft for you. Think I broke his nose. That was for me. :)

**Text from John Watson.  
****15 September 2012**

Went to your grave with Mrs. H today.

**Text from John Watson.  
****01 October 2012**

Back at Baker Street. Come home.

_- [Message Deleted] - _

**Text from John Watson.  
****05 October 2012**

Messed up your sock index.

**Text from John Watson.  
****05 October 2012**

You fucking idiot. Found your stash. At least you used sterile needles.

**Text from John Watson.  
****07 October 2012**

Thought about it. Flushed it. Not sorry.

**Text from John Watson.  
****31 October 2012**

I fucking hate you. Come home so I can tell you.

_- [Message Deleted] - _

**Text from John Watson.  
****15 December 2012**

Got a tree. Skull on top instead of a star.  
_{Picture Attached}_

**Text from John Watson.  
****25 December 2012**

Deduce your present? Happy Christmas.

* * *

_**Please note: Throughout this story, anytime you see something start with a dash ( - ), Sherlock is texting, talking, or deleting messages before he can send them.**_

_**Thank you.**_


	4. 2013

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

I placed Mycroft's correspondence in a different format than John's. Hopefully, this will prevent any confusion when differentiating between conversations. Also, if Mycroft is a bit OOC (out-of-character), then it is intentional. I like to think that no matter what their relationship might have been, they loved each other in their own ways. Sherlock would protect Mycroft as much as Mycroft watches out for Sherlock. During all this, Sherlock would have depended on Mycroft more than he would have liked. But as long as it got the job done and saved those he loved, I think Sherlock could have done much worse.

Enjoy!

* * *

**15 February 2013: From MH: **John in CCU. Stable.

**- **_Tell me. Now. - _

**15 February 2013: From MH: **Mugged on his way home. Knife wound nicked left lung. Small blade. Expect full recovery relatively quickly. Situation resolved.

**- **_Thank you. - _

**Text from John Watson.  
****07 April 2013**

Sarah called. Wants me back at the clinic.

**Text from John Watson.  
****22 May 2013**

Harry and Clara got back together. Still sober. Good for her.

**Text from John Watson.  
****15 June 2013**

One year.

**Text from John Watson.  
****14 September 2013**

I met someone today. You'd hate her.

**Text from John Watson.  
****21 December 2013**

Please stop this. Come home.

**Text from John Watson.  
****25 December 2013**

Happy Christmas.

_- [Message Deleted] - _


	5. 2014

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

* * *

**Text from John Watson.  
****17 January 2014**

Proposed to Mary.

**Text from John Watson.  
****30 January 2014**

Wedding in May. Be my Best Man?

**Text from John Watson.  
****12 March 2014**

Mary's pregnant. Be the Godfather?

**Text from John Watson.  
****24 May 2014**

I'm a married man now.

**Text from John Watson.  
****07 August 2014**

shrlck hep mee goddd ples

**07 August 2014: _Incoming Call From SH to MH_**

_- 'MYCROFT! Where is John?!' - _Panic and fear were evident in those few short words.

"Calm down. We've been tracking him and have emergency services en route."

- _'What. Happened.' - _Mycroft could hear his brother gritting his teeth, could almost hear the creak of plastic where Sherlock held his mobile to his ear.

Rewinding the appropriate camera recording, Mycroft found his target in seconds. "According to CCTV, Doctor and Mrs. Watson's taxi was struck by a speeding courier truck. Unfortunately, it seems to have crushed Mary Watson's side of the vehicle. "

_- 'Mycroft...' - _Sherlock may have whimpered, but he would deny it to his dying day. In a rare show of sympathy, Mycroft pretended he hadn't heard it.

"Ambulances are on-scene now. It seems as though you were never removed as his emergency contact, so I've taken the liberty of notifying your Detective Inspector, as well as Harriet Watson."

_- 'I need to see him.' - _

"You would endanger your mission?"

- _'Immediately.' - _Mycroft had no doubt he would do it, too.

"Allow the medical professionals to do their job and I'll see what I can do."

_- 'It's not up to you, Mycroft. If John...' _Sherlock sounded as lost as Mycroft was sure John would feel very soon.

"I know, Sherlock," he interrupted softly. "I'll take care of this as well. I promise."

**Call Disconnected.**

**Text from John Watson.  
****13 August 2014**

They're gone, Sherlock. They're dead. Am I being punished? Is this my fault? Did I kill you too?

**15 August 2014: From MH: **Doctors concerned about his mental state and have placed him under suicide watch.

**20 August 2014: From MH: **John released. Returned to Baker Street.

**Text from John Watson.  
****21 August 2014**

He thinks I don't know he's watching. I'm not stupid.

**31 August 2014: From MH: ** Taking him to Essex. Mummy insisted.

**Text from John Watson.  
****03 October 2014**

You were a cute kid. I love your mother. I see where you got your looks. She misses you.

**10 October 2014: From MH: Fwd from Mummy: **_John has been an excellent source of information regarding Sherlock. I wish I had known how much good he'd been up to. I should have told him how proud I am of him. _

**10 October 2014: From MH: **I've been summoned home. I hope you are satisfied. Finish this soon, brother.

**- **_6 months. - _

**Text from John Watson.  
****08 November 2014**

I would have been a dad yesterday. I miss them so much.

**Text from John Watson.  
****09 November 2014**

Your mum drank me under the table. I love your mum. May have told her that. May also have proposed. She won't confirm or deny.

**Text from John Watson.  
****25 December 2014**

Happy Christmas. Come home. Please. I need you.

**- **_[Message Deleted] -_


	6. 2015

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

* * *

**Text from John Watson.  
****29 January 2015**

I miss you, but I can't keep doing this. I still love you. Goodbye, Sherlock.

**- **_Fwd previous msg to MH -_

** 29 January 2015: From MH: **JW is well. Therapist believes he has finally reached Acceptance stage.

_- Protect him. Please. -_

** 27 February 2015: From Anthea to MH: Reports of explosions in Libya near SH last known whereabouts.**

**27 February 2015: From MH to SH: **Respond.

**15 March 2015: From MH to SH: **You are trying my patience.

**01 April 2015:****_ Incoming Call from John Watson to Mycroft Holmes_**

"Doctor Watson. What a surprise. How may I help you today?"

_{heavy breathing from several feet away; rustle of clothing; click of metal on metal (thumbing a gun's safety off?); very faint whisper-chanting: 'Shit, shit, shit. Mycroft. I know you can hear me. Trace the call. Shots fired. Repeat, shots fired. Pinned down behind the yellow Mini Cooper.'_

Being the British Government had it uses. Therefore, seconds after answering the call, Mycroft Holmes had his best people en route to Doctor Watson's location.

**01 April 2015: From MH: **John in danger. Respond_._

**04 April 2015: From MH: **John has agreed to assist in the operation.

**10 April 2015: From MH: **Your six months is up.

**10 April 2015: From MH: **Do not make me send someone after you.


	7. Mary

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

* * *

Had someone told John Watson and Mycroft Holmes they would one day be working together, would be as close as brothers, would actually enjoy each others company, both men would have laughed in the face of the messenger before rolling their respective eyes and walking away.

However, one fateful day at the beginning of March 2015, all that changed.

It had taken over two years for John to work his way through Sherlock's death, and had been doing very well. Mary had been a veritable life-saver, pulling him out of his own head and making sure he ate and slept and got out of the flat on occasion. She had essentially done for him everything he had done for Sherlock.

John had also found a deep and abiding affection for this woman. He proposed to and happily married her, and had been deliriously happy to be able to start a family of his own. They'd picked out names for the child and had chosen to wait for the birth to know the sex. John had decided, fairly early on, if he should have a daughter, she would be named Arabeth Grace. Mary, having read case notes and blog entries and heard stories of their adventures, had put her foot down firmly when it came to their possible son's name: Hamish Holmes Watson.

John had lain in their bed, curled around his wife's protruding abdomen, and joyously cried himself to sleep.


	8. Violet

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

* * *

Mary Watson was an exceptional woman. She had no misconceptions that, had Sherlock been alive when she'd met John, she and John would never have made it this far. She couldn't hold that against either man – she knew what unrequited love felt like – and would have cheered them on in spite of any hurt she might have experienced. Instead, she would likely have instilled herself in their lives as one of the very, very few people both men could (and would) trust with the other's life. Theirs would have been an epic story in the making indeed.

Unfortunately, a drunk driver rushing to make up for lost route time, stole John's new life from him, forcing him to start the grieving process all over again. He had considered... alternatives... more than once – as a doctor, he knew the best, most effective methods – but refused to bow under the pressure.

So, on a beautiful day in August (the 21st, as a matter of fact), he stood at the foot of Mary and Hamish's burial place, sent his message to Sherlock's phone (Even though he knew it would go unread, this had helped his coping immeasurably.), and returned to 221B to pack up the remainder of things to be shipped, stored, donated, or otherwise packed away, including the remainder of his heart.

John spent some time in Essex with Mycroft and Sherlock's mother, Violet. Amazing woman. (At the end of the first week, he was actually pretty miffed at both Mycroft and Sherlock for not introducing them earlier!)

The morning after their impromptu drinking game, John Watson stumbled into the sitting room across the hall from the smaller dining area hosting the pair's breakfast. Violet, being the stunningly amazing bit of woman she was, sat curled into a large wingback chair, wrapped in a massively fluffy cream-coloured men's robe, with large (and very, very dark) sunglasses on her face, and a Bloody Mary in one delicate hand. Neither spoke a word. Instead, a well-dressed and extraordinarily silent valet strode up to the good Doctor Watson, presented him with a gorgeously made mimosa and his own pair of (very, very dark) sunglasses, and took his leave just as silently.

Both sat cloaked in their own misery as the mid-morning sunlight made it way through the drapes. Once fortified with a morning dose, a careful exchange of nods, a more cautious movement of limbs, and a very undead-like version of a 'zombie shuffle' saw the pair supporting each other tenderly across the hall to breakfast.

Only later in the day, after taming his hangover and other symptoms of possible alcohol poisoning, did John realize the date: Yesterday had been Mary's due date. He would have been a dad by now.

The good doctor was struck motionless for a solid ten minutes, the tremor in his left hand the only real noticeable give-away to his level of distress. Captain John Watson, M.D. wiped his cheeks clean of tears, squared his shoulders, and hunted down Mrs. Violet Holmes and proceeded to wrap her in the first real, loving, non-manipulative, uncalculated, determined hug she'd received in almost ten years. Shock froze her for a few precious seconds before her Mother Instincts kicked in. And so, Violet Holmes - now 'Mummy' - allowed John Watson to fold her into his arms, to hold her tightly, and to cry into her shoulder.

"Oh, my dear boy." Mummy Holmes stroked her hand over the head of the man she now considered one of her own. "My darling boy, it's okay."

Mummy guided John to a nearby chaise lounge were he could rest his shaking limbs. She held him to her side in a way neither of her sons had allowed since before puberty and allowed him to grieve.

During the remainder of John's stay in Essex, Mummy plied him with pictures and stories of her life before Siger Holmes, before her sons, before she became Mummy. The stories, memories, and pictures of Mycroft and Sherlock, Violet and Siger, friends and family, piled up more and more as the days passed. They cried and laughed and sat silent and comforted each other when the memories got to be too much.

John took it upon himself to tell her the story of himself, his family and his time in the RAMC, of how he met Sherlock, then Mycroft.

Violet would always remember how John's face lit up and became so animated when he spoke of her son. _Oh, John. My dear boy. You loved him so much._


	9. Christmas

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

* * *

John eventually returned to Baker Street near the middle of November. Once December 1st rolled around, he and Mrs. Hudson broke out the decorations and laid waste to the blandness in both flats. He watched the lights flicker and flash against the tinsel and decorations, letting the memories swamp him.

His first Christmas at Baker Street with Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Molly. He'd had a girlfriend then, but not one that could withstand the scrutiny – _Thank you very much, Sherlock Bloody Holmes._

His second Christmas at Baker Street had been spent alone. He'd been so drunk, he still didn't remember much of the week leading up to or the day after Christmas Day. Greg had dragged him into the bathroom the day after Boxing Day, dumped him in the shower, and blasted John with freezing cold water.

They'd fought viciously, but Greg, being sober and less malnourished than John, had easily over-powered him. John would owe Greg for that for as long as he lived. The dark thoughts had been getting bad. Worse, John had been tempted to relinquish his soldier's strength and just give in.

From that day on, John may not have Lived, but he was Alive. He continued working at the clinic, met Mary, and spent his third Christmas at Baker Street in a state he hadn't been in a long time: Happy.

The only day better than when Mary agreed to join her life to his had been the day she'd come into the flat's kitchen, wrapped her arms around him as he stood at the sink, and kissed his neck. John smiled, dropped his sponge into the water, and turned to embrace his fiancee. He placed kisses to her lips, intrigued when her grin spread and laughter started spilling out between them.

"John." Mary kissed him again at the corner of his mouth. "John Watson. I love you. So much."

John hummed his pleasure into her mouth. "I love you, too, Mary-mine."

"John," she whispered. "I'm pregnant."

Things went a bit fuzzy then, but John would never deny it. Because the next thing he knew, he was sitting on the floor with Mary in his lap, her legs wrapped around his waist and their child cradled inside her between them. John would tell anyone that asked that he had cried like a child.

He'd texted Sherlock the news that night. Just picturing the look of horror on his dead friend's face made him giggle a bit hysterically. He was glad Mary had already been in bed. He didn't want her to witness his slight breakdown.

Back in the present, John sipped his whiskey and let his head fall back against the sofa cushions. He missed his wife unbearably, would always love her and be thankful they had the time they'd had. But John would happily take to his grave one truth: Had he been forced to choose between Sherlock Holmes and Mary Morstan, he would have been hard pressed to choose, even though he knew exactly who he would choose. Every time.

The guilt that accompanied this admission almost overwhelmed him but, instead of going for the alcohol again, John shored himself up and called it a night.

* * *

**_I almost feel like I need to explain myself and why I chose to have John love both Sherlock and Mary so much. I like to believe that John would be a more open-minded character, capable of loving more than one person regardless of gender or sexual orientation. _**


	10. Goodbye

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

* * *

The new year had rolled in while he wasn't looking and before he knew it, 2015 had come along. The six month anniversary of The Wreck (as he had so verbosely dubbed it in his mind) stared John in the face from the calendar in the kitchen of 221B. In a few short months, it would be three years since Sherlock's death. Just a few more and he would be a widower for one year.

He supposed, at the time, the only reason he could ever be thankful for his friend's death would be that he'd yet to fully move on from it. So, when Mary and Hamish had been so cruelly taken from him so quickly, he'd been able to compound the grief and move relatively quickly through those stages he was intimately familiar with: Denial, Anger, and Bargaining. Violet had helped him with a vast portion of the Depression that had seeped into his soul. She'd been a blessing.

John allowed himself to mourn that which had been taken, would forever be missed, was still loved, and made the decision to Accept the hand Fate had dealt him and move forward.

One week later near the end of January, John Watson sent his last text to Sherlock Holmes from the foot of his friend's grave. He visited his wife and son's shared grave, kissed the rose-coloured marker, and left a bouquet of the same flowers she'd carried on the day they'd married: White calla lilies and purple wisteria.

Spotting the black sedan on the road near the grave sites, John waved to the driver and climbed inside moments later.

Mycroft had lost weight in the years since Sherlock's death, and John had begun worrying when the bruises under the British Government's eyes began to be a more permanent fixture. He seemed to be glued to his mobile more so these days than ever before. Case in point, his frowning, brow-furrowed visage watched the screen unblinkingly as fingers flew in response to the latest incoming text.

"Mycroft."

"Hmm?" He didn't once pause or lift his gaze, but John knew without a doubt that every word he spoke would be heard, deduced, and understood in fractions of a second.

"Mycroft." John reached out and, using his rusty but still quick soldier reflexes, snatched the phone from Mycroft's hand just as the message was sent. His friend paled a bit before controlling himself and the obviously involuntary reaction to grab the mobile back. "Not today, alright? Let Anthea and your horde of minions run the country for a few hours. Please."

He looked as if he might argue, and John was ready for it, but at the last minute, Mycroft smiled lightly and nodded. "You're right, of course. But just for safety's sake...," and held his hand out for the mobile.

John chuckled at him and, shaking his head in exasperation, returned the phone. "How about lunch? I know a great place near Trafalgar Square..."


	11. Shots Fired

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment. Therefore, -the things I've made up came from the most logical stream of information I could develop. If it's wrong, oops! Sorry!

* * *

And so the days, weeks, and months passed. Slowly, but surely, and carefully. John continued in his locum position at Sarah's clinic, and even pulled a few shifts at Princess Grace Hospital's A&E on an emergency basis. (The irony of being an emergency on-call doctor in an emergency department was not lost on him, but he did love it.)

John even consulted for Greg when an outside medical opinion was needed. However, to prevent another fiasco and to keep everyone accountable for their actions, John was contracted to New Scotland Yard, did his own paperwork after each case, and even received a paycheck for services rendered.

This situation came in handy more than once. Most recently, the mysterious murder of a homeless man in a £3000 suit had everyone stumped. John just happened to recognize the man as part of Sherlock's Homeless Network and the suit as one from the same tailor his friend had used. He'd confirmed the man had been beaten severely – several bones being broken in multiple places in the process – before receiving one blow to the heart from the ice pick still in his chest. It would have been extremely painful and John imagined release in the form of death would have been preferable. The killer was apprehended within 24 hours on what little he and the CID team had uncovered.

The same evening, he'd been on his way home from having a pint with Greg and, not seeing the break in the sidewalk, tripped, fell flat to the ground, and was immediately sprayed with brick dust and mortar fragments.

_Wait... What?_

John was instantly sober and, without raising himself too high, pulled and rolled himself to prop up against the Mini Cooper parked a few feet away. Dragging his mobile from his jacket pocket, he pressed and held one button, dropped the phone beside him, and pulled his Sig P226 from its holster at his back.

No further shots were fired while he waited. Less than two minutes later, one of Mycroft's protected sedans appeared and ferried John to Mycroft.

It was a beautiful night in April three days later when John found out the details of Colonel Sebastian Moran's existence and his involvement with Jim Moriarty. He immediately agreed to provide any assistance necessary. It worried John greatly when Mycroft refused him. Normally, the man would take any steps necessary to resolve a problem. His reluctance to utilize John as a doctor, soldier, sniper, or even bait gave John pause for concern.

In the end, John gave him no choice. He would be included in the operation to bring Moran down, or John would happily hunt the bastard down himself. John would fulfill any and all roles he felt capable of stepping into, including placing his life on the line. He owed that much to Sherlock at least.

Mycroft finally consented.

_'Could be dangerous' _echoed in Captain Watson's mind, pinging off the walls he'd erected in himself that would allow him to do The Job.

* * *

_**I love John. That's all there is to it. He is the BAMF-iest of the BAMFs and will smile and laugh so prettily... right before he puts a bullet in your brain for threatening his loved ones. God, yes. **_


	12. The Plan

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

* * *

John returned to 221B on 24th April 2015, called Greg to come by the flat, and immediately put the plan into action:

He explained the danger to Mrs. Hudson and, after hugging the woman he considered his surrogate mother, promised he would do everything in his power to stay alive if only she would vacate the premises. Two days later, John escorted her to the correct platform at King's Cross, placing her on the train to her sister's and ensuring her safety.

Greg – his friend, colleague, ("_Nice scary Inspector from Scotland Yard..." John quipped, remembering the incident at Baskerville._) and one of the few people he could truly trust and definitely respected after everything they'd gone through together – had waited until Mrs. Hudson went back to her flat to call her sister and being making arrangements before he exploded.

"Are you out of your _fucking_ _mind_, John?!" Greg jumped from his seat in John's chair and began pacing, dragging his hands through his silvered hair.

"Calm down, Greg. It's..."

"NO! I will _not _calm down!" Greg spun on John, one finger almost putting out an eye. "This man worked for _Moriarty_, John. A fucking _madman_ that's already killed one of ours. I'll _not_ let you become his next fucking victim!" He thrust his hands back into his hair and spun away from John.

John swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Greg. It's okay. Seriously. Mycroft and I have this worked out, so..."

"Mycroft." Greg stopped his pacing and dropped his arms to his sides. "Mycroft knows."

"Um, yeah. He's the one that told me about Moran to begin with." Confused, John could only watch as Greg, muttering under his breath, pulled out his mobile, dialed, and began berating the person on the other line in a deep, growl-y type of voice he'd never heard from the Detective Inspector.

It took precious few seconds for John to realize Greg was speaking (_growling_) to Mycroft.

It took a few minutes for John to process enough of the situation to pick his jaw up off the floor.

Only after Greg pocketed his mobile and collapsed back in John's chair did the world start spinning again. "How the hell long has _that_ been going on?!"

Greg looked as confused as John had felt moments ago, then flushed red. "A little more than a year. Right around the time you met Mary."

John sat heavily in Sherlock's chair and scrubbed a hand over his face in shock. "Oh my god. Have I really been that far gone?"

Greg pursed his lips and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, John. It's been... hard... For all of us."

John focused his gaze on the skull on the mantle, feeling more like himself than he had in almost three years. "I have to do this, Greg."

"I know," he sighed. "Well then, let's get to work."

Over the next few weeks, plans were made, revised, scrapped, resurrected, and scrapped again. Their contingency plans had contingency plans, and every step had been choreographed to perfection.

In the midst of it all, John found time to congratulate Mycroft on his long-term relationship. The three celebrated at the Diogenes Club on a rare day off.


	13. The Death of John Watson

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

* * *

Monday, 4th May 2015, John had just finished an 18-hour shift at the hospital, followed by six hours in the clinic filling in for another physician. He would have cheerfully murdered another cabbie if he could just get home and get in a cup of tea before he collapsed. The stars must have been perfectly aligned because the taxi parked in front of 221B moments before he would have begged the man to just let him out wherever he might be. He'd leg it, no problem.

John departed the cab and stretched, popping ligaments and joints in a delicious manner, even seeing spots dance across his vision. It may have been why he ignored the flash of dark curls and long coat turning the corner.

To be honest, he missed Mrs. Hudson dreadfully. Specifically, he missed the way she would 'accidentally' make too many biscuits, or too much bread or cakes. He missed their occasional shared meals, and he definitely missed her company. He wasn't too proud to admit it.

He must have been exhausted or he would never have missed the clues laying about the place: Chair moved three inches away from the fireplace; curtains draw halfway closed; violin case laying on the desk instead of tucked away on the bookcase.

He missed the almost-faded smell of cologne that hadn't been in the flat in years. He missed the addition of a scarf on the floor by the flat door. He missed the two cups sitting on the counter, ready for tea.

He didn't miss the crash of glass as the window cracked inwards, nor the bullet that caught him in the left shoulder, almost exactly where he'd last been shot.

John lay on the floor of the sitting room, shock slowing his mind, but stopping the pain for a few golden moments and allowing him to scramble for his mobile.

Pain crashed over him in waves. He'd forgotten how much it hurt! His mobile dropped from numb fingers as he dug his right hand into the wound site to attempt to staunch the gush of blood.

In spite of the pain, he still registered the sound of footsteps coming up the seventeen steps to his flat. Slow and steady, Colonel Sebastian Moran opened the flat door completely before stepping in. He grinned down to his prey, chuckling at John's frantic attempts to reach his phone, his gun, _something._

"I thought you were better than to let me get the drop on you like that, Captain. You got soft." Moran crouched down, kneeling over John with his hands draped between his knees.

"I had hoped you would put up more of a fight, run for a bit, try to lure me out of hiding." He drew his gun from the back of his trousers and used the silenced barrel to stroke John's cheek. Grinning, he dragged the weapon down, placed it against John's sternum and thumbed off the safety.

"Truthfully, I don't want to kill you. No. You're just bait."

"Bait?" John croaked. "Bait for what?"

Moran let a look of false shock plaster across his face. "Oh! That's right! You don't know! Well, please, Doctor, allow me to enlighten you." He dragged the gun up again, pressing hard against John's forehead. "Sherlock Holmes. He lied to you, you know. All those years ago, he lied to you. He faked being a fake, lied to you, and ran away."

John wished he could blame the overwhelming agony in his shoulder for the tears that streaked his face.

"Oh. Poor Doctor John. It'll be alright soon. He took mine, and soon, I'll take his. An eye for an eye, a life for a life. You for Jim." Sebastian Moran stood then, looked away and around the room before he sighed. "Not much of a trade. Oh well. Goodbye, Doctor Wat–."

Gunfire cracked through the still air of the flat once more and Colonel Sebastian Moran fell to the floor dead.

John dropped his bloodied hand to the floor, still clutching the small derringer he'd started carrying in his jacket. The jacket he'd not yet removed.

He gasped in pain, crying out as he rolled to his side to grab for his mobile. It slipped through numb, blood-slick hands and bounced out of reach.

John huffed out a laugh at his own clumsiness and fell back to the floor. His ears had begun ringing and his vision going spotty before he'd tried to move. Now, the nausea was making itself known. The pounding on the steps outside was not helping either.

A flurry of motion at the door revealed the shadow of a ghost that cried out his name, "JOHN!", and was immediately followed by the sound of Greg's voice barking out orders to the paramedics right behind him.

John got one good glance at the terrified look on his dead friend's face before a hard thud of his heart made him gasp for breath. "Shr'lock."

The apparition grabbed for John's hand as he was field-triaged. John would have giggled in joy if he hadn't hurt so much. "He said... you're alive..."

Sherlock's pale face hovered over him, helping him push the blackness from his vision. His heart thumped again, harder, as the EMT jostled his wounded shoulder. He cried out and may have whimpered. John would not have been too proud to admit it.

"Sherlock. Holmes. Love you."

Tears that had been gathering in those sapphire-and-diamond eyes spilled over sharp, pale cheekbones even as he pressed John's bloodied hand to his cheek, kissing the flesh of his wrist.

John's heart thumped hard once, twice, three times, and stopped.

John never heard Sherlock's anguished cry of denial, or felt the jerk when Greg tried to pull Sherlock away from John.

John Watson died at 7:15 p.m., Monday, 4th May, 2015.


	14. After

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

* * *

_John Watson died at 7:15 p.m., Monday, 4th May, 2015. _

But only for two minutes.

Paramedics on-scene treated his bullet wound as best as they could, administered CPR and shock therapy to restart his heart, then strapped him to the backboard for transport.

He crashed again in transit but was immediately brought back and stabilized as much as possible.

The surgeons waiting at the hospital were the best in their fields and had John in surgery before Greg, Mycroft, and Sherlock darkened the hospital doors. Four hours later, Captain John Watson, M.D. was stabilized and in recovery, resting comfortably.

Sherlock refused to leave John's bedside, even under threat from Greg and Mycroft. He'd spent three years away trying to stop what had happened that very evening.

"What use am I if I cannot save the one person that means the most to me?! I sacrificed _everything_ to keep him _safe_ and now he's here, _in the hospital, _after being _shot_ by the man _I was hunting!_"

"For god's sake, would you please shut the hell up?" Weak from blood loss, surgery, anesthesia, and a short bout of death, the best John cold manage was a low croaking whisper. "Greg, get My out of here. Sherlock. Sit down and shut up."

Even from a hospital bed, John Watson was still the only man capable of successfully, and sufficiently, wrangling _both_ Holmes' men. Greg wanted lessons.

Sherlock sat and shut up for the next fourteen hours while John slept. He suffered the nurses and doctors checking vitals and providing after-surgery care, but glared any time one of them touched John.

At the end of Hour 14, Violet Holmes walked into John's room. Out of habit and respect, Sherlock stood. Violet watched her son carefully as she efficiently and carefully checked on a sleeping John. (Had you not known better or caught on to the obvious signs – c_lothing, hair style, bearing_ – you might have thought she had a nursing background.) Once satisfied, she straightened and motioned for her son to follow her into the hallway.

His mother was quick. Always had been. So, he was sufficiently surprised when her hand cracked across her son's face.

He touched the burning skin of his cheek and watched, horrified, as his mother began to tremble and cry. He gathered her into his arms and simply held her as she cried into the crook of his neck.

"I'm sorry, mother." His words muffled against her shoulder.

"Do not apologize to me, Sherlock Holmes," she admonished. Violet pulled back a bit and placed a cool hand to her son's face. "_I_ will not apologize for _this_ and you know why. I have never struck you before, but if you do something as idiotic as this _ever again_, I will let John shoot you. Understood?"

A grin crooked one side of Sherlock's lips. "Yes, mummy."

* * *

Recovery from a gunshot wound can take time. However, since the area of this most recent wound was less than half an inch from center of his old wound, the scar tissue that had built up over the years was torn away and must be re-grown. Physical therapy would be intensive if he planned on holding a gun steady anytime in the future.

Luckily, John was as stubborn as Sherlock was a genius. (That's a lot, by the way.)

After two weeks in hospital, John was released. And none too soon, either. He'd let Sherlock explain the reasoning behind his entire story, often delving into certain aspects of the last three years more than once. Honestly, his newest blog post was writing itself.

John and Greg informed Sherlock that his name had been cleared and Mycroft took great pleasure in telling Sherlock he'd been posthumously knighted. He also relayed current best wishes from the Royal family. The look of horror on Sherlock's face would be forever immortalized on Anthea's mobile, who immediately sent the picture to John. ("He needs a laugh every now and then.")

Mycroft gave her a raise for her quick thinking.


	15. By Your Graveside

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

* * *

The day of (what would have been) the third anniversary of Sherlock's death, John had been home for slightly more than three weeks. During this time, he and Sherlock worked very hard to get used to each other's presence again. To be honest, it didn't take very long at all. For the first time in years, John could make two cups of tea and not feel the need to shatter the offending mug against the nearest wall or collapse in tears against the same wall.

He may be recovering from another bullet in his body, but never let it be said it could keep John Watson from his tea or from providing one to Sherlock in the mornings.

Therefore, when Sherlock strode into the kitchen at 10:00 a.m. on 15th June but had no John Watson to greet him, he was a little confused/worried/scared (though he would never admit it). John was not in his bed, in the shower, or anywhere else in the flat. Sherlock was two steps from calling Mycroft when Mrs. Hudson bustled in, and, noticing his agitation, was quick to point out the date.

A sick feeling settled low in his belly.

The cemetery was a short ten minute cab ride from Baker Street. Not nearly enough time to allow Sherlock a chance to order his thoughts properly. He paid the cabbie and departed, knowing exactly where he might find John.

Sherlock watched him from the side, in (almost) the same spot he stood (almost) three years before. John sat at a wrought-iron bench that had been placed to the side of 'Sherlock's' grave. Looking closer, Sherlock could see the man's lips moving. He approached carefully, making sure he made some noise to alert John to his presence.

Sherlock took a seat next to John in silence, examining the slab of marble bearing his name in gold.

"I bought the plot to on the other side."

Sherlock whipped his head to stare wide-eyed at John. "What?!"

"I said, I..."

"I know what you said. I want to know why you would do such a thing?"

John kept his eye clenched shut. "I bought it shortly after you died." He swallowed against the lump in his throat. "It helped to know it was there, next to you."

"John..."

"I used to come here a lot before I met Mary. I talked to you – or, well, I thought I was talking to you, and I begged you to stop being dead more times than I care to admit. And all that time, you were banging around the world, hunting down leads and clues without me."

"I've told you why."

"I know. But it doesn't change the fact that we work better together than apart. You knew that and you ignored it. We could have figured something out, and you bloody well know it."

"You're still angry."

John rolled his eyes at his friend. "My god, still a master of understatement. Yes, Sherlock, I am angry. But I'm also thrilled, ecstatic, elated, walking-on-the-fucking-air happy." John scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed. "Do you know I thought it was my fault?"

"What? Why would it have been your fault?"

"I don't know, Sherlock! I just did!" John threw his hands in the air in frustration and carefully, but quickly, pushed himself to his feet to pace at the foot of the empty grave. "I kept asking myself if there was something I could have done or said to keep you from jumping. You have no idea how much I regretted calling you a machine."

John grasped the fabric of his jumper as it lay over his heart and looked pained. Sherlock jumped to his feet and rushed forward, panicking for a moment as visions of heart attacks flashed through his brilliant mind.

John just grasped at Sherlock's arms as he came close and allowed the tears to finally flow while Sherlock held him upright. "I _missed_ you _so much_, and it hurt so badly for so long."

Sherlock pulled John into his arms and simply held him. He tucked John's head under his chin, making sure to position John's ear over his chest so his doctor could hear the healthy, living, beating heart inside Sherlock's chest.

John's arms tightened around Sherlock and would have tucked him into his own body, if only to keep him safe forever and ever. He felt the calm settle over him and the tears and hurt slowly pass.

Sherlock waited until John was capable of breathing better on his own before pulling back to look him in the eye. "I missed you more than I thought I was able. I caught myself talking to you uncountable times over the years. I even heard your voice admonishing me for even considering resorting to drugs during the lowest times. You may not have been by my side, but you kept me sane. Thank you."

John watched him for a few moments, allowing the words to sink in properly before grinning hugely. "Sherlock Holmes. You daft, idiotic, amazingly, brilliant bastard," and dragged his consulting detective down to claim his mouth.

Sherlock froze, but soon found himself weak-kneed and whimpering in the hands of John Watson. He pulled John closer, wishing he could wrap them up in a protective bubble and whisk the pair away. Instead, John pulled back just far enough to separate their lips. Sherlock whimpered again at the loss.

"I love you."

"Always."

* * *

_**I'll leave it to you to decide who said which of the last lines. I compromised in my own head and convinced myself they said them simultaneously. :)**_


	16. In The End

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

* * *

Over the years that followed, John never did regain the same range of use he'd had in his shoulder after he moved to Baker Street. However, it was enough to save Sherlock's life over a dozen times more, raise a pint with Greg after a long case, and give Mycroft's CCTV cameras a two-finger salute when he felt particularly sassy.

Sherlock finally made his position as a consultant with New Scotland Yard official, and even signed a contract that meant he would get paid for each case he worked. He argued and pouted and raged for weeks, saying that it took away from The Work. That is, until the serial killer twins showed up to make London their playground.

Many later years found the pair in a small cottage near Holmes Manor in Essex. Violet Holmes' last years were spent with her youngest son and his husband. Sherlock raised bees for their honey and performed his various experiments. John tended a few patients in the nearby village and dealt with the agent and manager he'd been forced to get after publishing _The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes_.

He never left out the unsolved cases...

* * *

**_Thank you for walking with me during this. I hope you enjoyed it!_**


End file.
